


This New Dawn’s Light

by SharaMichaels



Category: Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 23:15:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11451093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharaMichaels/pseuds/SharaMichaels
Summary: "How could they know this new dawn’s light would change their lives forever?"After being tormented by grim thoughts the entire night, Christine de Chagny goes looking for her missing husband.





	This New Dawn’s Light

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. As with my other lnd works, this is based on the Australian production. This scene takes place after Why does she love me?, before the phantom makes his appearance and in an alternate universe in which Meg doesn't show up.  
> 2\. There is one headcanon that I have used and it's the basis for every lnd AU I've created. It is referenced at the end of this story; as this is an one-shot, I didn't want to include it in the narration, but I decided to write it up here to clear any confusions you might have. Here is how I imagine the marriage between Raoul and Christine came to be in this universe: after they were released by the phantom, nothing about their future seemed sure anymore. They were technically engaged, but as soon as they tried to plan their marriage, Raoul's family strongly opposed. He spent a while at the estate, trying to convince them to let him marry Christine. Meanwhile, Christine doesn't know what to believe anymore and doubts Raoul's success; she goes to see the phantom and the night "beneath a moonless sky" happens. She wakes up alone and goes home disheartened. Raoul returns, says his family allowed them to marry, and once again proposes to Christine. She agrees... and the rest is history.

 

 

Hours passed and Saturday rolled in, while people gradually fled the bar. Little after five in the morning the laughter and the shouting were extinguished, and all that remained were the clinker of the glasses being washed and put away and the dull snoring of a late customer, asleep on the counter.

■

The hours passed in the suite at Phantasma as well and Christine de Chagny had counted them all. She laid in bed fully awake, watching the clock needles pass the number twelve over and over again, waiting for the door to open and reveal a stumbling husband looking for forgiveness, for comfort, even for a quarrel. _If only he’d come back until morning…_ At home she was hardly bothered by his late nights that ended with him passing out on the sofa in the foyer, just as the sun casted its first beams of the day through the curtains. She hated that sofa, with the ugly flowery tapestry and half the paint missing from the woodwork, but she kept it there, with the specific purpose of comforting her husband’s drunk slumber. But there, in a foreign country, after all the happenings of the day, she was growing fearful, for her sake as much as for his. He was a nuisance, no doubt about it, and yet she wouldn’t have wanted to lose him like that, fatally injured in a drunken scramble, passed out in an obscure ditch no one bothered to search, or drowned in the bay, due to either a courage or a desperation too burning to handle. And then there was the other, always lurking in the shadows, now in possession of her deepest secret and capable of hell-spawned angers.

At quarter to five she was in the bathroom. Deep blue shadows stood out against her pale skin and she frantically washed her eyes, as if she could somehow dissolve them. She laid with her face in her now cold hands for a long minute, waiting for pitiful tears that would not come. She was too strong now, immune to her husband’s absences. He gaze trailed to her wrist and she gently caressed it. The place he had gripped was not bruised, but she could still feel a ghostly pain lingering there. It had been a death grip and he had watched her with such contempt in his eyes, with such _hatred_ …The strength drained from her and she lowered herself on the sandstone floor. It was ice cold and made her knees tremble.

“Oh, Raoul…”

Her fingers were absently playing with her wedding ring. She ought to take it off for the performance, since it was clear she agreed to do it. Then another small voice made itself heard in depths of her mind. _Maybe I shouldn’t put it back on afterwards._ The thought scared her and she tried to laugh it off; what a silly thing to think, what a contemptible idea for a respectable Vicomtesse… And yet, and yet, and yet… Her husband was wasting the little money they had on drinks in the hotel bar, as if they didn’t have a perfectly good assortment of mind numbing liquids in their suite as well… Anything to get away from her, wasn’t it so?

The wrist begun to hurt and she frantically pressed her fingers onto it. Had he held her so hard? Was it broken? But it hadn’t hurt before and she surely wouldn’t have been able to move it if it was so! She rotated the joint a few times, trying to shake off that initial panic, and admonished herself for that childish scare. The pain was decidedly not physical; it was merely a memory of that moment lingering in her brain, twisting her perception and building up sentiments she was ashamed of.

Her fingers pulled off the ring in one sharp, angry movement, then held it right in front of her face. _For better and for worse, in illness and in health, ‘till death parts us_. The Vicomte seemed surprisingly bad at keeping vows… And the angel of music fled from them like a devil from the cross.

_Maybe it was Raoul the one who was ill._

The thought made her shudder and the ring dropped on the floor with a high pitched noise. He had almost died trying to protect her from that hell spawn demon, then not only she tainted his sacrifice, but she let herself too caught up in her own troubles to notice how much he himself was suffering.

_Raoul never cares about anything, Adele.  
It’s all right, Madame la Vicomtesse. My brother was an alcoholic too; I know how to deal with monsieur. I promise he will never hurt you or the child. _

Raoul hadn’t mourned when his last relatives died… not in front of her, at least. He never seemed concerned about how much money they were losing. _Not in front of her, at least_. She remembered the time when Gustave broke a model train locomotive; it was sitting on a shelf, collecting the dust, and it shattered when the boy’s small hands dropped it on the floor. Raoul scolded him so badly, that she had sworn to keep her husband away from the child for the rest of their lives. But Raoul never cared about trains and especially not about antiques. The monster had come out and the once naïve boy, who valued the lives of his loved ones more than his own, had not been able to control it. She remembered how he left the house that night, and went missing for most of the following day, and she remembered her selfish relief when the front door closed with a thump. On the cold bathroom at Phantasma, she could see him walk with his head low, shoulders bent under the weight of his shame, searching for a cure that was about to cost him more than his money.

Christine de Chagny jolted from her wailing place and put her wedding ring back on her finger. She had waited for him to come back, knowing he always eventually did. But something inside her stirred that morning and, in the light so many realizations, she decided, for the first time in her life, to go look for her husband.

■

The bar was quiet and cold when Christine entered. She had been scared at first he might have left, but she managed to keep her wits about her and start the search logically and calmly, with the most probable of locations. The bartender turned lazily in her direction, raised an eyebrow, but didn’t bother to put down the glass he had been drying when he responded to her greetings.

Raoul de Chagny was sleeping with his head on his right arm, in a precarious state of balance, with his body suspended between the barstool and the counter. Christine unceremoniously sat herself down next to him and watched for a while. The pockets of Raoul’s trousers and vest were turned inside out. He was reeking of cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke, and a thin trail of saliva had dried from his mouth. Christine felt surprisingly little adversity towards the image. Raoul’s once luminous face was now pale and lined with wrinkles, but there was a calm about him that she found heartwarming. She stroke her husband’s unshaven cheek with a finger and smiled, not knowing for what or for whom.

“I knew I saw a ring there. I have to say I certainly didn’t expect the wife to show up _here_.”

The bartender’s voice startled her. She looked up and was met with his ironic gaze.

“Do you serve coffee in this place?” she inquired.

“It’s the first hour of the morning, lady. I have to grind it first.”

Christine couldn’t reprise a chortle. “And they say women talk too much. It was a yes or no question.”

The bartender planted his hands on the counter and leaned in towards Christine.

“Yes, we do serve coffee here. However, it’s only for the ones who can pay.”

She didn’t miss his smirk and shook her head. She reached in her coat’s pocket and pushed a bill towards him, then propped her elbows on the counter and looked straight into his eyes.

“You make the drinks, I buy the drinks. I would appreciate if you could do your job in silence.”

The young man behind the counter picked up the money and turned around with a grin.

“You’re quite a daring lady, I have to admit. Judging by your man, I wouldn’t have expected it.”

The words made her smile, but there was something about the man in front of her that displeased her. He was speaking French with a heavy accent, making no effort to conceal his adversity towards the language, and the looks he threw Raoul when speaking about him showed contempt and held a touch of condescendence. When she replied, her tone had lost all its previous playfulness:

“I don’t accept compliments at the expense of my husband.” Then she took a handkerchief out of her pocket, handed it to him, and asked, in a studied polite voice:

“Could you please soak this in water as well?”

The bartender scoffed, but obliged, then disappeared in a back room. Soon she heard an abrasive sound and the smell of grounded coffee beans traveled to her nostrils. Raoul moved in his sleep and she turned her attention to him.

“You slept enough for now, darling.”

The handkerchief was soaking in cold water and she twisted it with her hands, making it drip on her husband’s forehead. Raoul mumbled something and shook his head, but his wife was adamant to wake him up. She draped the wet cloth over his cheek and pushed his shoulder with her hand, gently at first, then a little harder, when he showed no response.

“Raoul! Do you remember your wife?”

Heavy eyelids were opening. He saw her through his lashes, but didn’t believe in the reality of the image, so he closed his eyes again. By the time his head searched again for a comfortable position, he was sufficiently awake to feel the cold moisture on his cheek and woke up alarmed, removing the handkerchief with a clumsy gesture and turning a look of utter confusion towards Christine.

“You?”

She smiled resolutely. “Me.”

Raoul rubbed the back of hand against his mouth and ran his fingers over the damp forehead and through the messy hair.

“Did not expect to see you here, Christine.”

“I wish I could say the same thing about you,” she responded, and he caught the glimpse of regret in her eyes.

Silence fell between them; beginnings are always the hardest. When the bartender came through the door again, Christine turned to him with an odd enthusiasm: a good reason for conversation. The young man set two cups of steaming coffee on the counter and pushed a handful of coins towards Christine.

“Your change, Madame.”

Christine studied the pieces for a second, then pushed them back. “You can keep it, if you promise to hide back there and not disturb us.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I have to be here to attend to customers. And people around here usually tip a lot more.”

Christine didn’t bother to hide the fact that she was getting annoyed: “Listen here, _mon garçon_. You can sit next to the inner door, from where I’m sure you could hear somebody entering. I care very little about you hearing us; I would just rather not see your face reacting to our conversation.”

The bartender threw a look in Raoul’s direction and found him completely mesmerized by his wife. This pair of Frenchmen was definitely not completely in their right mind, he concluded, and disappeared through the curtains leading to the back room.

Raoul tasted his coffee and flinched when the hot liquid touched his tongue. He tried to cover up the embarrassment by focusing back on his wife and starting the conversation.

“How did you find me?” it wasn’t the best choice of question. He hadn’t been exactly hard to find for years. For too many years… “I mean, why did you come here, Christine?”

She was studying her cup and hesitated to answer.

“You always come home. Even when you go missing for a whole night and the better part of the following day, you always come home. I would hear the door slam and Adele would yell something at you about food being ready if you need it… You never talked back, but I would always hear the clinker of plates and cutlery being handled. No matter how far away or for how long you would wander, you would always come home. But tonight… Tonight, for the first time I was afraid you might not.” He looked at her with confusion and concern in the same time and she shook her head, then tasted her coffee. “There’s something about this place… It makes me afraid.”

Christine fell silent and Raoul didn’t manage to utter anything more than a sigh. He wrapped his palms around his cup, pressing them hard against it, and took in the sting of the heat. His head was pounding and his tongue was tied. There were so many questions, so many discussions ready to begin. He glanced at his side and saw his wife lost in thought, and he couldn’t help but think she was beautiful, and couldn’t repress an egotistical desire to lay in her arms. He shook away the image and took a leap of faith. Start simple. Start with a few words, with the most common of questions. _Put her first._

“Do you… do you want to talk about it?” He didn’t lift his gaze from the cup and he wasn’t even very sure of what “it” might have been, nor if he was ready to hear it.

“Hm?” She looked up, as if awoken from a dream. “I-” She wanted to tell him everything, right on the spot, to lay off the burden of too many secrets, but something stopped her. Maybe a latent fear, maybe a spur of pride. Their eyes locked and the silence hardened between them, so she decided to change the subject. “Would you like to take a walk? It’s still early, we might see the sunrise, if we’re lucky.”

She gulped down her coffee under his attentive gaze. When she put the cup down, Raoul suddenly remembered he owed her a reply.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “It would be nice to get out of here.”

“What about your coffee?”

He glanced down at his hardly empty cup. “I never liked coffee anyway.”

“Maybe you should give it a try. People say it’s really good when you need to wake up,” she said, pinning an all-knowing look on him.

Raoul took another mouthful of the drink; it had the familiar aftertaste of hard liquor – dry and bitter – but it left an odd sensation of impending danger in his chest. He abandoned the coffee and fixed his clothes at best as he could, then jumped down from his stool. To his surprise, his senses had not been completely restored; although the height of the chair could hardly be considered high altitude, his feet almost missed the landing. He wobbled around and hung onto the back of the seat, while an alarmed Christine sprung from her own seat and got hold of him.

“Do you need any help?”

He turned towards her. There was a hostility in her eyes that saddened him, even more so because it was justified. Nobody enjoys dealing with drunks, especially not for a decade.

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” he mumbled and pulled away from his wife. Christine’s voice made itself heard again while he was putting on his coat, but this time louder and not at all directed at him.

“Could we get some water, please?”

The bartender cocked his head from the other room.

“That will be some extra cents.”

Christine handed him the coins left on the counter, the change she got after the coffee order.

“I trust these will cover the price.”

The young man laughed and filled two glasses, then planted them on the wooden surface. His eyes were glued on Christine and she sustained his gaze.

“You are a very odd couple, did you know that?”

Christine couldn’t repress a smile. “You have no idea, _mon garçon_. Not the slightest idea.”

She handed one of the glasses to Raoul and rubbed his shoulder with her other hand.

“Forgive me. I don’t seem to have thought this through very well. I should have known coffee wasn’t the best drink to have the second after you woke up.”

He drunk up obediently, then spoke quickly: “Let’s get out of here.”

Christine nodded and wrapped a shy hand around his, leading him through the door.

■

The de Chagny spouses were sitting down on the seafront, listening to the roar of the surf. It was a calming sound; barring the end of the world, the next wave was surely going to splash into the banks. Christine was the one to break to silence:

“You never came to deal with me.”

“Pardon?”

“Isn’t this what you said? Before you left me alone with the Giry’s? ‘I’ll deal with you later’. I suppose in the moment I did feel a trace of fear. But I should have known better. I should have known you won’t do something as brave as to actually speak to your wife.”

He lowered his gaze and nervously plucked at a tuft of grass.

“I’m here now. Deal with me,” she added and turned to look him in the eyes.

Raoul met her gaze and took a deep breath.

“The composer… The one who wrote the aria… Madame Giry said I know him. I had a hunch as to whom it could be, but your eyes… your eyes assured me of the truth. I had nothing to say ‘later’. I saw it all in your face. There is only one man, one single being on this whole damned Earth, that fills your with equal parts horror and fascination, isn’t it, Christine? When I asked you about it-”

“ _Á propos_ , you must know you hurt me then. Is it worth waiting for an apology, or was it intentional?”

The blunt tone in which she delivered the blow disarmed him, and when he continued, his tone became more subdued.

“When I asked you about it, I was terrified,” he confessed and took a deep breath. “He _scares_ me, Christine.”

The look in her eyes didn’t change. “I take it whiskey helps in dealing with fears.”

“You can imagine the days when I could afford whiskey are long gone,” he replied with a sheepish smile, but Christine had no reaction.

“I know. We have whiskey in the suite.”

There was no point in arguing or making up excuses. He wanted to get away from her and she knew it.

“It is the angel of music, isn’t it, Christine?”

What was the point of losing herself in explanations and evasions? “Yes.”

“What does he want from you?”

“To sing for him again.”

“But how-” he swallowed hard and shook his head. “Christine.” She looked up and he locked his gaze on hers. “Please be honest with me. I know I do not deserve it, but I would still very much appreciate your honesty. What’s this really about? Why are we really here?”

Christine didn’t blink. Founded and unfounded fears lapped around her and triggered all the alarm bells in her brain. Her demeanor gained a shade of hostility and, when she responded, her tone was harsh.

“We have unfinished business.” She wanted to be calm and detached, but her emotions got the best of her and she stumbled over her words. “He- Him- He probably- probably still thinks we have unfinished business,” she managed to add and frantically pushed her hair behind her ears.

“What unfinished business, Christine? What more could he possibly want from you? He let you go! We fought him and we _won_! The last time we saw him… I was left with the impression that the whole affair was over, even from his part… It was over! We were _done_ with him!”

Christine couldn’t repress a sigh. _Poor, unhappy Raoul_. It was both pity for the man whose trust she had betrayed and an overbearing guilt that clung to her heart that morning.

“The last time _we_ saw him… It wasn’t the last time _I_ saw him.”

Raoul’s brows crinkled. “What do you mean?”

Christine turned her head away from his intense stare. “You know very well what I mean. I went back to him.”

Raoul’s voice trembled. “When?”

“It was a long time ago, but not long after we fled the opera labyrinth.”

There was a grim premonition tugging at Raoul’s heart as he posed another question to his wife: “Christine… what did you do?”

“It was before we were married. And it lasted no more than a night…” She peaked at him out of the corner of her eye and saw him staring at her, shaking his head ever so slightly. A small “no” escaped his lips and Christine sighed. She couldn’t hold it in anymore, but was not brave enough to speak the actual words. “Come on, Raoul. You know what I mean. You know what I did… it had always been your worst nightmare, I suppose.”

She heard the ruffle of his trousers as he turned away from her. His fists were clenched and, for a small moment, she got the feeling he was ready to strike her. Her head retreated between her shoulders and she looked at him from underneath her lashes.

“Ra-”

“No!” he interrupted. “No, you- you lie! I do not know what reason you have for it,” he added, pandering a lost gaze on the ground, “but you do! You lie! There’s no way, no way…” his voice trailed off and he struggled to push the last words past the knot in his throat. He squeezed his eyes until he saw stars and, when he opened them again, he saw a sheepish Christine, waiting for his reaction. The image made him irrationally mad; she was afraid of him, after all this time, she was afraid of him! Had the tables finally turned and he was the monster? He started to wonder if this would indeed be a change. And then, the worst implication of Christine’s confession hit him at full force. When he spoke again, his voice was merely a strained whisper: “Gustave…?”

Christine’s sigh told him everything he needed to know. He distanced himself from her and planted his palms on the cold sand.

“My God, Christine.” She felt the utter disappointment in his tone, but couldn’t take offense. She _was_ guilty and there was something about his demeanor that exuded a sadness she couldn’t remain insensitive to.

“Raoul, dear-”

His head swung in her direction. “No! Don’t you speak to me like that! How could you, Christine?” She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off. “How could lie to me like that?” His voice thundered around the empty beach as he jumped from where he was sitting and started for the sea. Christine hastily got to her feet and sprinted after her husband, but he turned around and admonished her with a finger. “Don’t! Don’t you come near me! Don’t even try to explain yourself! Dear God, Christine, why play me like fool? Why couldn’t you just leave? Why couldn’t you just go to him? All those nights and days when I beat myself down for all my fails, all this time, it was you! I wish you said something, I wish you- I would much rather have you flee the house in the middle of the night!”

He marched up to the edge of the sea and kicked off his shoes, then took off his coat and let it fall on the sand. The water lapped around his bare feet and he looked up to the red stained skies; with his arms wide open, he waited for the breeze to cool him down and took a sharp intake of fresh air. Christine stubbornly followed. He spotted her at the edge of his vision and turned sad, imploring eyes in her direction. “I said stay where you are, Christine. Leave me alone. I don’t need you in a cage, I don’t need to be accused of cutting a soprano from her music. I never wanted this! I never wanted any of this!” his voice raised again, as he flailed his arms around. “You said- you said yes… God damn you, you said you love me!” She tried to call his name again, and started forward, but Raoul stepped back. “No, I don’t want this anymore. I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was tired, but he took a deep breath and gathered his strength for another yell. “Christine, this marriage is a _farce_!” With that, he put his hands on his head in a disheartened gesture and heaved a desperate sigh.

Christine sat unmoving and watched the scene unfold. She believed herself prepared for any reaction and gave her husband the right to be outraged. She knew it was just a matter of waiting for him to calm down, then sit him somewhere safe and talk things through.

But then, in an access of anger, Raoul spun around and kicked the waves with his foot. It was an impulsive gesture of unpredictable force; he didn’t aim it at anything in particular, but the water splashed high and got Christine in the eye. She yelped and covered her face with her hands, trying desperately to soothe the stinging pain. As sudden as the pressing of button, Raoul’s demeanor changed and he sprinted towards his wife, his whole being a mountain of concern.

He searched his pockets to no avail; they were completely empty. With no handkerchief available, he settled for the next best thing and pulled his shirt over his hand, ready to come to his wife’s aid.

Christine tended to her eye as best as she could. When she saw Raoul coming in her direction, the tender look in his eyes left her impassive. Her patience had all been extinguished and, as if her brain finally processed all the words her husband had thrown in the air, she couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but contempt for him. Raoul whispered her name in a soft tone and tried to touch her face, but she pushed him away, in a gesture more violent than she intended. He looked at her in disbelief; it only made Christine angrier.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” she inquired and slammed her fists on his chest, when he took a few more steps towards her. “How dare you blame me for your own sins? You want me leave? To desert my own home? Where would I go, what would I do, alone, with no job and a child? He left me alone! He abandoned me! He didn’t think twice about what I would do… and now I’m seeing you have a mind to banish me as well! _You_ should be the one apologizing, you should be crawling at my feet begging for forgiveness!”

She stood looking into his eyes while she caught her breath. The anger inside her, gathered there in the course of so many years, burst out all at once, and a plethora of feelings too its place. There were many and they burned, and Christine succumbed to their force and pushed her husband one more time.

He stumbled backwards. The sea drew its waters back, preparing for another wave, and sucked the sand right from under his feet. He tried to run, but the earth gripped him tight and he fell.

He fell into the waves, face forwards. It all seemed to be happening slowly. The water engulfed him and he held his breath and he fought. A wave washed over him; the salt and the sand burned his eyes and he closed them. There was no up and down anymore, just the water, holding him in its cold embrace, and he stopped fighting.

Then there was a hand underneath his head, holding him up, and another hand pressed against his back. He felt his body climbing slowly and suddenly a gust of wind and sound hit him in the face. The surf, the ocean breeze, and Christine’s frantic voice.

“Are you all right? Raoul, talk to me!”

He succumbed to a fit of coughing and clumsily untangled himself from her hands, then retreated on the beach to recompose himself.

Christine had herself removed her coat and shoes before jumping after her husband. The breeze was chilly, but she took pleasure in the cold climbing in her bones. It brought a very much needed awakening. She sat herself quietly next to Raoul. Her presence gave the man a strange sense of calm. In a leap of faith, he placed his hand on his wife’s knee. She was looking straight ahead, watching the waves with an uncertain expression painted on her face – something between a frown and resignation – but flinched when she felt his touch. Without sparing him a glance, she removed his hand with a frantic gesture.

“Don’t. I came here to save _you_.” And then, with a gesture made to faithfully mimic his, Christine put her own hand on Raoul’s knee and squeezed.

“Thank you,” he mumbled and caught the sight of a tentative smile rising on her lips.

The she turned her head to face him, let out a sigh, and embraced him. Raoul awkwardly reciprocated the gesture.

“Why are you still hanging onto me, Christine? After everything… You love him. You have a child with him. You two have your music and such a great life ahead of you… Soprano of the century, the brightest diamond of Coney Island…! Wouldn’t it be better for everybody if you just-” his voice caught, but he swallowed hard and plowed on “if you just let me go? Oh, Christine, why wouldn’t you let me go…?”

She tightened her grip and bowed her head down on his chest.

“You don’t know? Can you not see? It is because _I love you_.”

She heard his sob and nuzzled in close. “You don’t have to say anything. Just hold me.”

“I am holding you.”

“Hold me tighter. Hold me like you mean it.”

He pulled her away and adjusted his position, such that he was able to grasp her whole body in a damp embrace. Christine nestled her head against his shoulder.

“I am so sorry for hurting you…” he whispered from above and it didn’t matter anymore whether he meant the eye, the wrist, the words, or everything else in a decade of married life. Christine tightened her arms around him. He was wet and cold and smelled like the ocean, but she much preferred the scent of algae to the one of alcohol infused sweat.

“I never meant to hurt you either,” she mumbled against his soaking shirt. His only response was a half repressed sob and a caress on her back. “Whatever you’re blaming yourself for… please know I share the blame. Maybe not directly or completely, but I’ll always share the blame,” she continued. “I came back to you, haven’t I? Ten years ago… and just as willingly today.”

Christine sat up. Her husband’s arms were still idly draped around her; she searched for his hands, then held them tight in hers.

“You are right, Raoul. I did say ‘yes’. The last time you asked me to be your wife…it was after… the fact, and whether or not I was with child then will forever be a mystery. I said yes and I meant it, and I did it because I wanted to be with you! And today I came looking for you because after all these years and everything we’ve been through, my answer is still ‘yes’.” She had to take a breath and wait for the knot in her throat to ease, but then she continued with the same steady tone. “I know where I stand and I know where my feelings lay, but you… I hardly know you anymore. And it is partly my fault, for never asking you what’s wrong and for always hiding away from you… Maybe time has come for me to pose the question.” Raoul frowned, but she spotted the slight arching of his lips; there was smile there and it gave her courage to continue. “Raoul de Chagny, do you s _till_ want to be my husband?”

Raoul closed his eyes for a long moment and the smile crept on his lips without him noticing. He opened his eyes to look at the woman in front of him; she was as flawed as she was brave and he felt his heart beat faster.

“Yes,” he answered and drew her hands closer towards him, then pressed them together at his heart. “As foolish as it seems and as hurtful as it sometimes is, I would still very much want to be your husband, Christine Daaé.” He bent down and kissed her fingers and the giggle she let out was music to his ears. When he sat up again, a sneeze shook his entire body, and Christine outright laughed.

“We’ve been here long enough,” she said. “Let’s go dry up. I still have rehearsals to attend to.”

Raoul got up along with her and kept quiet as they collected their shoes and coats, but when they met again at the beginning of the trail, he couldn’t help utter a protest.

“I don’t think you should do the performance, Christine.”

She gave him a stern look. “I think I ought to. Raoul, I love to sing! I want to sing! He is giving me a stage and an aria and, unless you lock me in our bedroom, I will go and fulfill the contract. I am not afraid of him,” she said, then gently placed her hand on Raoul’s chest and added: “and you shouldn’t be either. I’ll sing and then we’ll go to him and demand our payment and will have the money to live another day. Raoul, if I am to remain your wife, you need to trust me! Say, are we on the same page? Will you let me do this performance, for my soul as much as for our pockets?”

He sighed and wondered once again how he ended up being the man who took her voice away. He never hated music and he most definitely never hated Christine, but the darkness that grew inside him, each day a little more, was like poison and it spilled around him. He couldn’t stand to watch her float above him, always an angel, always perfect, always keeping him at distance as if he was tainted or broken. But on that beach of a foreign continent, he had discovered she was no angel, no pure songbird. She was nothing more than a woman, as human as can be, stubborn and proud and prone to lying, with thoughts as vicious as his own hiding behind her candid eyes. In that refreshing light of the sunrise, he found her just as broken as he was, maybe even more scared, feeling even more guilty. A tainted woman maybe, but nevertheless the woman that he loved. Raoul put a protective arm around his wife and held her close.

“I have no right to stop you from singing, Christine. Never have and never will. You have my permission to be as harsh as you have to be in reminding me this, if it ever happens that I forget.” She nuzzled in close and wrapped her arm around his waist. “I trust you,” he continued. “I am terrified and I most certainly don’t trust _him_ , but I am with you.”

Christine raised her head and pressed a kiss on his cheek. Then, grasping each other closely and dripping water, the spouses took the path back to the hotel.

“ _Á propos_ ,” Raoul suddenly spoke, “what did you do with Gustave? Have you left him all alone in the suite?”

Christine couldn’t repress a laugh. “I asked Mr. Gangle to watch him.” Raoul made an annoyed noise in his throat and she patted his breast reassuringly. “No need to worry, Gustave likes him. And when he’s not wearing his stage makeup, he looks very much like a normal human being.” They both laughed. “He’s also the one who lent me money for the coffee.” Raoul glanced at her, his eyebrows raised, and she added: “Please don’t be mad. Darling, we need help, you know that. These people, they are only employees, they’re not going to rat me out to Mr. Y. Mr. Gangle assured me he knows what I’m going through and to consider it a donation.”

“A donation,” Raoul repeated gravely.

“Indeed. He asks for nothing in return. Not all people are inherently bad, Raoul.”

They took a few more steps in silence, then Raoul’s voice made itself heard again: “I’ll take care of him tonight.” Christine stopped and threw him an inquisitive look, but her smile could have only come from understanding. “Gustave, I mean. I’ll look after him tonight; you shouldn’t worry about anything but your singing.”

Christine’s fingers stroke her husband’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“And tomorrow…”

There were many uncertainties about the following hours and tomorrow seemed years apart from that moment in time. Christine resumed walking, arms tight around her husband’s body, and spoke with a tone of calm and reassurance:

“Tomorrow we make a new plan.”

 

 


End file.
